100
by Zaedah
Summary: Zaedah's contributions to the TVChick08 Hundred Prompts Challenge. [ConNat]
1. A History of Here

Just a little Zaedah contribution to the Hundred Challenge. More to follow.

Special thanks to TVChick08 for creating such inspirational fodder!

**A History of Here**

(048Whisper)

The first time she'd heard it, there was promise.

"Not here," his voice whispering want when she leaned closer, her intention plain.

His office was lit only by the half moon but she could see the words hadn't been easy to speak. This genesis of physical expression was a new wrinkle in their complicated history. Still, he held back only for lack of proper location. So she didn't worry.

_Not here_ meant somewhere.

………….

Somewhere had involved his couch an hour later. Physical expression took on a host of forms, all of which would have suggested they'd done this since the day they'd met. No skirting the edges of contact. No pulling away out of duty or protection. He was very much _here_. And she was very much gone. Until the ringing phone halted progression into dangerous waters.

………….

The second time she'd heard it, there was chastisement.

"Not here," his voice whispering warning as he cast a gaze around them.

A long week of slow success cost them several lives, losses that weighed on her only half as much as him. As team leader, he took failure hard and the distance that followed was not unexpected. But her lips could bridge the gap. They sought his in a lamp-lit corner of the NIH parking lot. They were denied.

_Not here_ meant hiding.

………….

Hiding had involved a pint of water ice, staving off the heat of the night and the fire his rejection hadn't doused. Reluctant to answer the persistent knock at the door, Natalie waited an hour to let him in. Just knowing he'd stayed that long for her crafted an immediate forgiveness. They didn't discuss public displays of affection. It wasn't necessary now. She'd told herself discretion was the key to this man and she'd have to respect that to keep him

………….

The third time she'd heard it, there was scolding.

"Not here," his voice whispering rebuke of her advance.

But she'd needed him so badly at that moment, here in this lab. Surrounded by fatal data and death-on-a-slide, his touch would have made this devastating diagnosis bearable. Of course he wouldn't put their secret relationship on exhibit. Especially in the middle of a case.

_Not here_ meant professionalism.

………….

Professionalism had involved lies by omission. In massive quantities. Because the she was often asked about her evening plans. Or the hickey that fooled no one by its 'bruise' label. Or the glances he gave that a third knowing eye would catch. They were on the cusp of obvious and he was fighting it to the point of ending it. Ending them before they'd begun. Because the job and the boss and the team and the world expected professionals to remain so in private hours.

………….

The fourth time she'd heard it, there was gallantry.

"Not here," his voice whispering cautious urgency inside Detroit's largest transport.

Not here, but somewhere. Hiding was forgone and professionalism was blurred. His insistent pull on her arm told her not here would no longer act as an excuse. And they kissed their way out of the car, across the grass, up the stairs and into his bed. Finally. The genesis of physical expression turned the page to revelation. And their complicated history untangled into a straight line of Here.

_Not here_ meant everywhere.


	2. GPS

An addition to the 100 prompts challenge...**  
**

**G.P.S.**

(045 Guilty)

Sitting in silence was an alien concept to the assembled group. Surrounded by donuts, coffee and unfinished reports, 2 men and 2 women lounged in respectable highback leather chairs in a very dignified conference room. And bantered. And laughed. And even snorted. The raucous discourse caught the attention of passersby, but none admonished the hardworking foursome, knowing they'd have the team leader to answer to.

The scant time between cases presented rare opportunities for personal communication about topics other than death, dying and beyond. Tensions built upon the pressure of making life-altering decisions could be excised in conversations typical of normal, everyday office drones; the kind that work 40 hour weeks. The sort with lives.

While waiting for their leader, the team members batted random quizzes around the room. No one was immune or excused from participation. And only truth was acceptable.

Today's subject: Guilty Pleasure Shows.

Eva admitted to Flavor of Love, which showed her the lengths not to go to in order to find a rich mate. Battling a houseful of ambitious women held no appeal. Especially when catfights and foodfights were required skills in a contestant. Cringe-worthy, perhaps, but entertaining.

Entirely embarrassed, Miles confessed to Dancing with the Stars. His weak comment that he tuned in for the women's costumes was neither believed nor accepted, since he couldn't describe a single revealing outfit but could explain the quickstep. Upon pressing, he was forced to acknowledge a hidden interest in ballroom dancing.

Overnight infomercials fascinated Frank, especially the earnest sales pitches for useless products that people weren't allowed to live without. Of course, every household needed the Flowbee haircutting system. How had the caveman ever evolved with it?

It seemed to Natalie that, with their vastly unpredictable schedules, getting to watch _any_ show was a guilty pleasure. But those melodramatic 'real-life' courtroom proceedings were hard to pass by. Judge Judy, Judge Mathis or even the People's court were quick, pointless and addictive.

It was during her demonstration of a frustrated gavel-banging that Connor swung open the door. His expression was part amused, part annoyed and all business. No one else on the planet could pull that look off and the team straightened in their seats for his words.

"Whatever reports aren't ready can wait until tomorrow, since it's technically," he checked his watch, "two hours from now. Go home but be back here by 7."

Thrilled by the unexpected reprieve, the group collectively gathered files and stray papers, heading hurriedly to the door before their good fortune shifted. Except for Natalie.

"You missed a good debate. So," she sidled up next to him, looking up to catch his gaze and failing. "So, tell me. What's you G.P.S?"

That got his attention, sternness fading into confusion. "My what?"

"Guilty pleasure show. You know, something you love to watch that you may not advertise to the world." Leaning near, Natalie suitably blocked his retreat.

Sighing, he snatched up the papers Powell had left behind, presumably for his boss to handle. "You don't really expect me to answer that, do you? I have a mystique to maintain."

"Ah, but you do have an answer," she concluded with a strange delight and a wagging finger. As though she'd caught him in the act of being normal.

"Naturally. Still human, I'm told," he reminded her.

Her hands moved to her hips, which was supposed to denote serious inquiry but instead seemed a bit juvenile.

"Spill it and I'll cook you a three course meal." Well aware how much he loved her brazed chicken, Natalie's grin surged forward in undisguised triumph. She had him. And he knew it.

"Let me out of this conversation and I'll do the dishes for your…four course meal." Bargaining with Natalie rarely worked in his favor, unskilled at subtlety as he was. But he was slowly learning how to play her game.

"Answer the question, Dr. Connor, and your five course meal will include…" a discreet hand wandered across his shoulder blades. "Dessert."

At her improved offer, Connor's voice slid into a mischievous and husky tone, a rather tasty sound. "Maury Povich paternity shows."

Delicious, she decided. Who's the daddy, indeed.


	3. Silken

**Silken**

(078 Tie)

When Stephen doesn't wear black, there is cause for concern. Not that any sane woman would complain about such a fine aesthetic presentation. But 'suit day' does nothing for his mood. What they do to my heart rate is another story.

On these days, we are guaranteed an excruciating display of prickliness; a cactus in Armani.

Meetings with NIH brass, court appearances and Congressional testimonies are a necessary evil of Stephen's position. And these unpleasantries are usually the culprits that drag the suits from the back of the closet. He says these days are Director Ewing's preferred method of torture. But I suspect the ice queen enjoys the view as much as I do. I've seen her eyes follow him with a slightly unmelted appreciation. I hope I hide mine better.

On these days, Frank calls him 'GQ.' I call him mine.

For lack of a case, the team typically uses this time to wade into the crinkling depths of a paperwork ocean. I anchor myself to the lab, easily locatable should our leader need rescuing. Little time is spent doing meaningful work, as the quiet in-between leaves my station mournfully sparse. On 'suit day,' the act of looking busy is an exercise in futility. My eyes are assigned to guard duty, watching the door and scanning the corridors. He'll come to me eventually. And he always finds me ready.

On these days, I'm reminded how much I want him.

It helps that I know what he'll want; a quick change, a cold beer and me. In that order. At 7 p.m. I let the horizontal blinds fall over the lab windows, blocking my sacred interior from prying eyes. Eva stops by to invite me to her hunting party at the bar. I politely refuse and she declares it just leaves more prey for her. Her departing smile is the same I get from the others when I decline their company.

On these days, it's clear they all know.

I'd intended to inform Stephen of this upon his arrival. Except the sight of that man in that suit does things to my tongue which don't involve speaking. And I devour him because I can. Because I covered the windows and he locked the door. Because he calls me his. And when he pulls away, I grasp his tie within a determined fist to hold him there. But my grip is quickly released to reign in the images involving that silken length and a bed post. We'll never get out of here otherwise. He says he wants to change, go to Darby's pub and then… His lips finish the well-established list through the silent worship of mine.

On these days, I don't mind the order of his desires.

Because though I'm last, I'm certainly not least.


	4. The Request

If you have to ask the pairing, you haven't been reading enough of Zaedah's drabbles!

The Request

(092 Run)

"Come to bed," she told him.

Having fallen asleep in cradled warmth, the loss of the embrace let a bone-deep chill stir her to waking. Her weary body registered the absence before her brain was ready to release the visions it had been entertaining. Delicious dreams were stolen by opened eyes, which cut through the dark to judge the distance between the bed and her lover. Too far. But he harkened not her request, seeming to prefer the window's view of broken moonlight to her arms. He needed to clear his head, a service she wasn't allowed to provide.

"I'm going for a run."

………

"Come to bed," she told him.

Having spent days in the company of corpses, she needed the power within him to evaporate the weakness in her. But he gave her nothing tonight. Not polite conversation. Not proximate silence. Not even primitive lust. Sleep evaded her because he evaded her. By choice. She resigned herself to watching him abuse his spirit with every loss they'd encountered on this case. He was in no position to heal her own wounds. Though her insides stung from the cuts she'd made on others, she asked anyway.

"I'm going for a run."

………

"Come to bed," she told him.

Having a predicted snowfall of 8 inches did not deter him from taking advantage of their rare night off. Full moon, crisp air and time conspired to call him from her side. He'd return, tired but recharged; something she'd use to her own benefit. The expected accumulation increased by the minute and she tried to coax him from the door. Denied again in favor of the frozen caress of night.

"I'm going for a run."

………

"Come to bed," she told him.

Having the flu did nothing to soften his mood. The invincible leader hunched over medical files that would take human form tomorrow. She'd asked him to push this trip off on another team. She'd asked him to coordinate their group from home. The man was sick, but stubborn. His immune system bore the scars of a merciless schedule and now he was paying for ignoring the signs. The ones she'd pointed out with increasing volume for days if only he'd listened. Still, healing was never found in her presence. Knowing the answer, she asked one more time.

"I'm going for a run."

………

"Come to bed," she told him.

Having barely crossed the threshold, the forest of candles caught his attention in singular surprise. Hazy plumes wafted from mini-fires, the tangible manifestation of her inner desire. The smoke alarms had been disconnected and he had been disarmed. The front door was closed with purpose, and he remained on the preferred side. No defenses. No distance. No denial. And no moonlight was needed to clear his head.

"I'm coming."


	5. Sleepwalking Grief

**Sleepwalking Grief**

(053 Searching)

In frantic urgency, she hadn't bothered knocking. His car rested in the driveway, parked at an odd angle, and the front door was unlocked. Natalie had intended to alert him to the tousled state of his NIH sanctuary. But upon entering his dwelling, it was clear no crime had been committed, save for that done by his own hand. The townhouse was as disheveled as his office. The familiar brown leather jacket laid discarded in the hall and she picked it up almost reverently, settling it on the back of a chair. And then a sliding sound drifted down from above. Grabbing one of his son's baseball bats, Natalie crept up two flights of stairs.

Stephen Connor, organizational perfectionist, was located in the attic, surrounded by open boxes. Random items littered the floor and Natalie went as undetected as whatever he was searching for. An elemental wrath had come through every corner of his home; man-made and unexplainable.

The inner fury that crafted his well-known temper had warped into panic as it left his careful control, seeping into the heavy air to suffocate her. Natalie was equally afraid to snap him out of his trance and terrified to leave him to his own devises. As though a closer look would reveal the answer, Natalie set down the bat and stepped forward. The wood planks creaked beneath her feet, a soundtrack for his pulsing anxiety.

"Let me help you?"

Her words fell to the shadows as she caught the glint of a knife in the dim light. A swift movement of his hand and another box split open at the seam; reminiscent of a brutal autopsy, slicing through tape instead of skin. Its contents joined the other belongings in the mounting heap. Pounding heartbeat echoed in her ears as she recognized the signs of trauma. The cause was still as much a mystery as the cure, her doctor's instinct kicking in with none of the detachment required for efficient diagnosis.

"Stephen?" Another step accompanied her shaking voice. "Tell me what you're looking for."

The interruption brought no reaction, no acknowledge of her presence. It was like watching a sleepwalker going through unconscious motions. When he finally spoke, it was the voice of someone else. Somewhere else.

"I need them."

Squinting in the low light of day tricking into the lone window, Natalie cast a discerning eye to the pile of rejected items, hoping to retrieve a clue from what was missing among them.

"I can't... I can't bury him without them."

The distracted tone was in no way directed to her. Rather, it only seemed to remind himself of his purpose and he moved faster until the last box had been dismantled. With that final container clearly netting no results, Stephen looked past her, through her, to the doorway, ready to escape to whatever space hadn't yet been overturned.

Experienced in the fruitless art of worry over Stephen's extreme work habits, Natalie had never entertained concern for his mental stability. But that line was approaching with every moment that he remained in this state. And as a last resort, she stepped into the breech, reaching up to take his face in her hands. It took a moment for the effects of this event to catch up to her touch, but realization of her presence slowly dawned. Still, every molecule within him fought her insistent urging to focus on her. Seconds before he bolted, she summoned her own inner Connor.

"Stop." The order issued from her lips with a force matched by her gaze's intensity. And his breath caught. "Stop," she repeated and he blinked as though waking, breathing coming in quiet gasps.

Bowing his head, Connor's eyes closed with a sudden loss of energy, a slow shake of his head the only indication he was finally with her in this realm. Pulling his head down to rest his forehead against hers, she was surprised when he spoke in a broken whisper.

"Please."

Unsure exactly what he was asking, she doubted he could elaborate. Perhaps somewhere buried under the state of shock, he'd wanted someone to stop him, to tug him back from the edge. Slipping a hand down to his, Natalie relieved him of the knife.

………

Depositing him at the kitchen table, Natalie prepared coffee while simultaneously watching him over her shoulder. He'd been in shock, that much was certain now. Currently, he was just exhausted, the disaster in his wake expending his full resource of energy. Achieving a mess of her own in the process, the sugar spill was ignored in her rush to rejoin his side. A steaming cup of caffeine was placed before him, but his eyes never strayed from a scratch on the table's surface. Sliding into a chair beside him, Natalie steeled herself for a direct line of questioning; the only way to handle him at any time.

"Who are you burying?"

Some unidentifiable emotion shadowed his features briefly, and then the mask tried to resurface. But her hand brushed his, this time aborting his effort to hide. Still, he averted his gaze, raising his sights to the hole he'd apparently punched in the kitchen drywall.

"What did I do?" He wasn't asking from a lack of memory. Rather, he seemed to be looking for a reason. As was she.

"Just a little mess." Her eyes darted to the living room, evidence of his tirade painfully visible. "Nothing we can't fix." Lifting her hand from its place over his skinned knuckles, Natalie cupped his chin and turned his face to her. "What were you looking for?"

Perhaps her calming touch grounded him. Or maybe he was just ready to talk. Moving away enough to avoid contact with her skin, he took a deep breath and finally looked at her.

"My grandfather was 99 years old yesterday. Haven't seen him in five years. It's been ten years since he recognized anyone." Pausing to soothe his parched throat with her strong coffee, he winced at the utter blackness of it, then continued. "The day I joined the army, he showed up with a box of medals. His medals. He told me that if I went overseas, I had to take them with me. And I had to bring them back home. His way of saying, 'don't get killed.'" His rueful smile was fleeting. "I tried to return them that day. Tried again after the Gulf War. Tried again when he moved to the nursing home. I didn't…I didn't want the responsibility of looking after his integrity this way."

When he fell silent, Natalie filled in the gap. "Wouldn't take them back?"

Looking to the ceiling for a moment, Stephen seemed to pull a memory from the blank canvas of white. "I believe his exact words were, 'Give them to me when I'm dead and buried.' But having them meant having something impossible to live up to. He was so disappointed when I left the military after the war."

The aroma of her untouched coffee filled her nostrils and set her mouth dry, but a single movement could stop the flow of his words. "But now?"

"Now, he's gone and they're the most…" His gaze dropped, along with the strength of his voice. "…important thing I have. And I lost them. How could I do that?"

Of the million valid excuses she could provide, there were none would satisfy him enough to remove that tang of disgust she caught in his tone. His Irish Catholic guilt had been witnessed in action before, its subtle shades tainting his ability to forgive himself. But what this grief produced went beyond guilt. It was condemnation.

Another swallow of cold coffee. Another wince, this one not related to the bitter flow of Columbia's finest. "Lisa was right. She said this job would make me crack one day. I think she just missed it."

He rubbed a hand over his eyes before looked to her again, as if granting permission to confirm that diagnosis. There was nothing of the supremely confident man she knew before her now.

"I think… you force everything so far down inside that when trauma breaks it free, you get lost. But when you let someone in, you can get found." Natalie retook his hand, waiting for the inevitable pull back that never came. "Just like the medals. What's lost is better found with help."

………

On the morning of the funeral, there were two topics of conversation; the old man's impressive age and the couple who stood out among the mourners. The grandson and his companion stood quiet and strong, holding hands beneath the bright sunshine. A rose in her free hand. A box of medals in his.


	6. Slaying the Dragon

Just another TVChick08 100 prompts challenge. Dear me, these things are addictive!

Special thanks to Dr-Who-4-U for being such a constant inspiration and faithful encourager.

**Slaying the Dragon**

(028 Shatter)

She wanted to ask, naturally. Who didn't? But the population of the building knew not to confront this man with such frivolous questions. Dr. Connor took privacy to uncharted levels, but his general abhorrence of personal conversation only fed the mill. With so many speculative stories routinely circulating about him, Natalie filed today's in the 'fables' folder of her brain. It fit in snugly between his being a cyborg and their 'secret romance,' the latter being woefully untrue.

Trying to concentrate on the task at hand, she ended up fiddling repeatedly with a test tube. Staring holes in the label, she now had the address of the BD Vacutainer's manufacturer seared in her cranium. The problem was, it wasn't the possibility of a fight that distracted her.

Attempting to force her focus back to processing the liquid-filled vial, she simply reread the tube's urine preservative ingredients. Boric acid, sodium formate and sodium borate could do mild harm if swallowed. The trouble was, it wasn't the supposed facial damage that disturbed her.

When the tube slipped from clumsy fingers onto the floor, the clank was followed by a bounce on the tiles. It hadn't shattered. Unlike the jaw, apparently. And realization was scooped up with the vial. The issue was, it was the reported participants that bothered her.

The disjointed rumors swirling around the NIH building were almost silly, really. Natalie couldn't remember this much excitement over juicy gossip since high school. Yet here were the world's top scientists and physicians debating the force a punch would require to shatter a jaw. If such an action were to take place. By one of their own. But she's spent vast hours contemplating those biceps and scientifically calculated just how easily the result could have been achieved.

Slapping the tube back into its upright holder, Natalie finally gave up the pretense of work and headed to his office. The elevator ride was shared by Miles, looking entirely too nervous for someone that had recently seemed to secure a backbone.

"Like I needed another reason to fear him," he quipped before purposefully departing in the opposite direction.

Eva came from the Media Director's office, grinning like the little sister who'd just tattled on big brother. "Oh, he'll be in so much trouble," she giggled her delight.

Natalie merely shook her head, knowing that Stephen could get out of just about anything; especially a non-event like this false story would undoubtedly turn out to be. Yet, determined to go forth and slay the rumor dragon, she girded herself with the shield of faux-innocence and the sword of friendly overture. A battle-tested warrior was she, a soldier on a fact-finding mission. Navigating around the roadside bombs of busy personnel, Natalie approached the target with caution. And a loaded question.

But just before the last turn, she found Powell stalking toward her, a knight in camo armor carrying disappointment back from the battlefield.

"Don't bother," he sighed. "Man ain't talking."

Figures someone would beat her to the punch, no pun intended. If Frank managed no information, what chance did she have? This was only going the right way for an argument. Still she inched her way toward his office and peering into his haven, found him on the phone. Catching something about a court date gave further credence to the brawl theory. He was pacing, which wasn't altogether a bad sign. It was stillness that warranted concern. When he disconnected, he sunk into his chair and greeted his visitor with a sigh.

"Would you please be the one person that doesn't ask?"

Oh, how she wished she could grant the pleaded request. He must have seen the conflict in her face because he shook his head in mild frustration.

"Of course not." He muttered, then reluctantly gestured to the empty visitor chair.

Natalie shrugged out of her lab coat, draping it across the chair back, an indication she intended to stay for some time. Settling into the seat, she crossed her legs, hands folded on her lap. And waited.

The politeness of her posture clashed with her determined stare and it inspired something approaching a grin from him.

"So what version did you hear?" He asked.

"You decked a man so hard, his jaw needed wiring. And…" she hesitated to add the worst of the rumor, as her face would surely betray her discomfort. "And the man was your ex-wife's date."

"Is that all?"

The detachment in his voice didn't match the near-glow of his eyes. With his unexpected warming to the subject, she intended to take advantage.

"You stalked them and when they got home, you took him out." Her right fist was slammed into her open left hand in imitation. "And Lisa was so impressed that she," how to put this delicately, "expressed her thanks." The circular hand gesture supplied the thought behind the words. If only something would supply a cover to the accompanying blush.

"Anything else?"

His prompt arrived in a fairly teasing tone, proving his enjoyment of her remaining unease. A mute nod served as reply, as an answer seemed forthcoming and who was she to disrupt the flow? Leaning forward to set his elbows on the desktop, Connor watched her squirm under his intentionally intimidating gaze for a leisurely moment.

"Yes, there was a punch thrown. Yes, it may require reconstructive surgery." The smallest wince accompanied that statement. "And yes, he was my ex's date."

"O-okay," she drug out, not feeling at all better for this verification.

A measure of familiar seriousness returned to his expression as he continued. "Lisa sent me a text message from his car. Said the man was making her uncomfortable and asked me to meet them at her house. When I pulled up, he had his hands on her and she was struggling to get away. So I took care of it."

Gallantry, in her opinion, excused a host of violent acts. "Hence the future court date?"

Chagrinned at the reminder, Connor rose from the chair and moved to the door. "Apparently, I have to justify the assault to a judge. But I don't feel compelled to do the same in this building."

Except that he had. With her. Not wishing to push her luck, Natalie rose and reached behind for her lab coat. The motion symbolized their return to professional conversation. But he wasn't done yet, witnessed by his hand on her arm. She liked it there. It belonged there. Why wasn't it there more?

"And no, she didn't express anything that would test the constraints of our divorce."

Emboldened by this revelation, Natalie laid her hand over his, partially to ensure the contact continued. "Violence without incentive. Chivalry at it's best."

Her gut reaction to his smile was tempered by the sliding of his hand from her grasp. Damn. He was almost out the door when…

"For her, you'd maim. Wonder what you'd do for me."

Sometimes her mouth accidentally voiced the thoughts in her head. Sometimes she wanted duct tape for the rebellious body part. And sometimes he actually answered things like that.

"For you? I'd kill."

Left alone to contemplate the seriousness of such a statement, she realized that the dragon had, in fact, slayed her.


	7. The Accomplice

**The Accomplice**

(015 Lies)

They lie to each other. It's fairly alarming, the ease and regularity with which these otherwise morally sound people fabricate truth. And by default, the lies to each other become lies to everyone else. I'm watching them do it right now.

With Miles and Eva both off on different NIH adventures, in the form of God-awful seminars, I am left to catch several stages of the Unholy Lie playing out in the conference room. Not that they know the interaction's being observed. Not that it would matter. Public or private, my friends maintain this evil thing like a damn houseplant.

The first lie is their professionalism. With lab coats of armor, they announce to the world that these two colleagues are separated willingly by the constraints of the employee handbook. He shrugs away from any form of contact she initiates, every ounce the untouchable boss. It's inappropriate, he said to me like the newly divorced man he is. I called him insane. But she keeps trying, bless her heart. Only because he needs an occasional reminder that being human is acceptable, she tells me. Come on, people.

The second lie is their arguments. Or at least the reason for the frequent confrontations. He hates being challenged. She hates being ordered. That's how they explain it to me, anyway. He's like a sniper with the verbal sparring and in giving her so much practice, she's honing her own skill. On their personal firing range, they raise passions along with their voices, not that anyone's supposed to notice. I used to butt in, fearing for their safety and hating the scene it created but now their level is well beyond human interference. Besides, there a shred of hope in this form of communication, since I'm hoping like hell one of them will slip. This particular lie will ensure my eventual need for a hearing aid.

The third lie is the truth. Well, their truth anyway, which defies all decent logic. I know their general thought processes; workplace romances are not only against the rules, but against the statistics. If it didn't work, there'd be the gnawing discomfort of transfers and such. Separately, she's thinking she could never sneak in past the man's plated-metal, Teflon-coated bulletproof shielding and he's thinking he'd only destroy her innocent, bright and sunshiny spirit. Seriously.

It's like a spectator sport, watching their game play out and my armchair quarterback mentality was perfectly content with my cushy sideline seat. But the length and duration of this lie eventually had me taking the field. I thought I could alter the rules a bit, erase and redraw the boundary lines without their notice. My wife pegged me as a closet matchmaker when I read her my new playbook. See, I had a plan:

Step one…Get them to admit their feelings to me individually.

Step two…Get them to admit their feelings to each other together.

Hardly detailed, my soul mate pointed out, but I prefer the quick and simple route. So naturally she sat me down to an all-day Lifetime movie-fest in hopes of gleaning ideas. During every commercial break, she'd come up with farfetched scenarios to pull these two out of their deceit. I hope my friends know what I've endured on their behalf. According to Lifetime, every woman has an abusive spouse or a stalker. Or both. Maybe I need to hogtie them in front of a TV for a melodrama marathon. Just think what they'd learn.

But these two have defied my limited and borrowed skills. Mostly because they worked around my attempts at subtle meddling. I couldn't manipulate the game. I couldn't achieve step ½. With either of them. I'm beginning to think superpowers are necessary for success. I admit defeat.

They have the company line down pat. And in the end, they've made me an accomplice to the lie. Because I could neither expose it nor modify it, I now loiter at the scene of the crime. I'm the silent witness, the one with the knowledge who can't tell anyone. By not waltzing into that conference room right now and setting them straight, I'm also the enabler.

I've put my matchmaking costume back into the closet. But one of these days, the gloves are coming off and this life of crime will stop. Because a staggering amount of homicides are committed by associates and I'm too damn busy to go to jail for murder.


	8. Pie Bartering System

Ah, the joys of blackmailing for a half of a half of apple pie. I'm sending this one out to MILover. Because she's so very sweet!

**Pie Bartering System**

(030 Escort)

Impatience possessed a handsome face. Impatience possessed a difficult disposition. Impatience was also missing. And now the trait was rubbing off on Natalie. She'd scoured the halls for a tall blond on a cell phone, peeked into the lab for a pair of blue eyes, stormed into the cafeteria as an unlikely last resort. Eva shrugged, having last seen him arguing with an administrator over jurisdiction. Miles was avoiding him, already receiving an acid-tongue lashing for circumventing certain unruly patients.

Running into Frank brought every frustration rushing out of her pores, as he was yet another person who wasn't her target. Connor had demanded light-speed results but delivering them would require a current address.

"Where is he?" Her hands were raised heavenward in celestial supplication.

"At the mini-bar. How the hell should I know?" Her eyebrow arched at his outburst and he had the good grace to slap on a contrite expression. "Look, check the patients again. I'll try another text message and voice message. Hell, I'll even send up a smoke signal for you."

Letting the sarcasm slide, Natalie headed to the makeshift triage. The area was cordoned off with clear hanging tarps. It only took a moment to locate the body wrapped in a black t-shirt. Everything else in the ward was as white as his hair; sheets, walls and patients making the scene a study in pales. Connor sat with an old man whom she recognized as Joe Panofsky, the uncooperative patient Miles had complained about. Joe was speaking in an animated fashion and Stephen listened intently, leaning just out of reach of the wildly gesturing hands. For his level of illness, coupled with the disadvantage of advanced age, Joe was quite feisty. She moved closer, just barely catching their conversation without being noticed.

Joe was laughing, great effort made in that simple act. "I used to be an amateur boxer, 'fore I got skinny. Had arms almost as strong as yours."

"Good record?" Stephen's voice took on that soft, warm quality reserved for patients. Compassionate, such as Miles would likely never have directed at him. Poor kid.

"15-3." The pride in the announcement shaved a decade off Joe's appearance. "Hey, you coulda stepped into a ring to pay for med school."

Connor shook his head, appreciative smile forming at the compliment. "Too busy crushing wide receivers."

Joe's laugh turned to coughing for a moment. "Got any kids, doc?"

"11 year old boy." Stephen confirmed.

The man put his finger to his chin in an arthritic imitation of the Thinker. "Hmm. Too old for naps, too young for girls. Not a bad age."

"Agreed."

Joe paused to gingerly shift his weight in the bed. "Good kid, doc?"

"Must be to put up with me."

From her hidden spot, Natalie cringed at that honest evaluation. Mr. Panofsky was fading, but seemed to enjoy the doctor's company too much to give into sleep. Registering this, Stephen took a deep breath, as if about to tread shaky ground.

"I met your daughter today. She said there was an apple pie in it for me if you got better."

Looking every inch the proud father, he grinned. "Won first prize for that one. Wish hospital food came from her kitchen. Good bartering technique you got there."

"I'll judge that when the pie arrives. She said you promised to escort her to her company party next week. I'm going to help you do that."

Who said the man had no people skills? One just had to be sick or dying to bask in them.

Joe groaned. "I hate those damned things. Music too loud. Food too cold. No beer and no older singles. You wanna help me? Take her yourself." He then tapped Connor's arm conspiratorially and said, "She's 38, a former swimsuit model and loves football. You could barter a lot more than pies from her."

Ignoring the proposed set-up, Stephen fine-tuned his gaze to gently pin the man. "Which reminds me. It's our turn to negotiate. I hear you wouldn't answer Dr. McCabe's questions."

"Young'un looks no older than my grandson. Ain't detailing every nook and cranny of old age to a kid. 'Sides, I been hit in the head too often, so with his questions in some kinda medical jargon code, I couldn't answer."

"But you'll answer mine." It was less a question than a suggestion.

Weathered features turning shrewd, Joe rubbed his knobby hands together. "What's in it for me?"

Connor tilted his head in consideration. "A quarter of my pie."

"Three quarters."

"Half."

"Done."

Reining in the impulse to chuckle, Natalie discreetly backed away, tiptoeing out of earshot. A hint of guilt surfaced for having eavesdropped. Results still useless in her hand, Nat allowed Joe to exercise his right to doctor/patient confidentiality. Still, all that talk of pie induced a craving. Plus, there was an opportunity for teasing here and she plotted the method of accomplishing both.

It took a solid hour to come across Stephen again, this time in the lab, scanning the files for some commonality that Joe's answers may provide. The test results they'd argued about that morning remained in her possession and Natalie was itching to unload them.

"I'm starving," she declared by way of greeting. "I could go for dessert."

"Can't imagine what you'll find in the vending machines." She knew he sympathized only so much with his team's frequent hunger pangs. Lord knows if they ate only when he did, they'd be skeletons.

"I looked but I couldn't find that… special item in there." Casually leafing through the folder pile, she added, "Shame there's no…pie here."

He laughed. She wasn't sure he could even do that. Or that she could make it happen. The honest to God laugh made being busted worth any consequence. As quickly as the relaxed moment had come, it passed as Connor straightened to full height, his hands moving forcefully to his hips. But a second glance revealed that a shadow of a grin remained.

"I already gave away one half. You're not getting a bite."

"Is that right? Tell you what; a slice or I'll tell Joe's daughter you'd be happy to escort her to that party."

"Where will you eat it when I fire you?"

The mock sternness of his features was fat too familiar to produce anxiety, so she shot back, "And on my way out the door, I'll destroy those results you were so impatient for."

Frowning at her blackmail, Connor considered the value of preserving his intact half a pie before conceding. "I choose the dimensions of your slice."

"Done," she shook on it.

Only, she knew what his revenge for the eavesdropping and subsequent blackmail would net her. A sliver of a slice. Still, a crumb was better than nothing. Slivers she was used to from him. And slivers she would take.

Which is why the plate that appeared under her nose, just after the last patient was released, shocked her. Containing exactly half of his half, he'd personally garnished the top with whipped cream and a cherry. Quite a length to avoid escort-duty, she decided. But worth every blue-ribbon, bartering and blackmailing bite.


	9. Skin Carving

Yes, dear ones...Another entry in the 100 prompts challenge. So many ideas, so little time. Please enjoy responsibly.

**Skin Carving**

(050 - 11:11)

It had become a dangerous time. Promptly at 11 pm, Jack Connor would arrive home, tired and happy. The bedtime routine would last ten minutes under the watchful eyes of both parents. In the 60 seconds of the next minute, something in the atmosphere would shift.

The first time was blamed on a purely accidental contact. Lisa had simply walked her ex-husband to his car. Nothing out of sorts, only the duty of any good hostess. At precisely 11:11 pm, the wintry coating of ice on the drive altered the path of goodbye. A slide. A catch. The innocent press of lips. Gratitude turned hungry.

There were other men vying for her willing consideration. They gave more attention, more time, more of themselves than Stephen had ever managed. But they didn't have his lips. Familiarity so recently lost in this separation of souls, one dividing back into two, drove the touches and sighs to the confines of her room. The one that had been theirs.

He was gone before dawn, discovery promising to renew a boy's hope. Words were left tangled in their mouths and only her stroke of his cheek illustrated the lack of malice. Or regret. It simply was. No blame, no fault. And no recurrence.

Until the second time. Punctually dropped off at 11 pm, her son drifted to sleep ten minutes later safe in the knowledge of his parents' love. One minute passed and she commented on the tenseness of her guest's shoulders. There would be a beer and a massage. So easy to rub and knead the knots away. So easy to drift small hands downward. Ministrations became demands.

There would be other women fighting to reach him, she suspected. They'd give more understanding, more forgiveness, more latitude than Lisa had ever granted him. But they lacked history. The past breeds a present contentment with the familiar. And once the trap had been inhabited, however briefly, the return was inevitable. This uniting into one body had long been a spiritual balm for them, one applied now to soothe a mutual loneliness.

Repetition was their specialty; whether it was the resumption of old arguments or the resuming of mistakes. They knew it was wrong. Still, each time 11:11 showed on the mantle clock, she was found reclaiming him under some thinly veiled guise. Ignoring as she did the deeper truth that he was no longer hers. Releasing him from the bonds of matrimony hadn't stolen that part of her that wanted to hold on. Despite giving Stephen up, she loathed the idea of someone else taking her place. Especially when she'd yet to locate an adequate replacement for him.

Forgiveness required a certain leeway that neither possessed. She blamed him for choosing strangers over his family. He blamed her for withholding understanding. No matter what occurred in the depths of midnight, by morning both were aware that their issues weren't solved. Nothing had changed and nothing gained but a temporary release in such covetous corporal expressions. Unmarried as they were, she supposed one could pronounce the label of sinning upon their deeds.

The physical did not mend the psychological. Which didn't mean she could stop. Because at 11:11 pm, she could feel at home again. The pear-shaped world was set round and spinning when the light touches hardened into urgency. There was safety in his sure hands and when he gave her his sole focus, there was everything else.

The third time, she sensed another creeping into the fringes of his mind. His sudden hesitancy in her hall spoke of new passions rising in him. It wasn't someone new, as he didn't fall in love quickly. A challenger would have to work a slow way into his thoughts. While he stood indecisive, Lisa chased the mystery girl away by sinking to her knees before him.

And the fourth time, she left scratches. If there was someone else, they'd see the evidence that a former love had existed. Still existed. Selfish as it was, Lisa felt no condemnation for carving even a temporary place for herself on his skin.

But tonight, when Stephen watched Jack scurry inside from the confines of his car, she knew she'd finally lost him. Clearly the other had successfully coaxed him from the cycle of the familiar. And she wondered what the woman offered, what manner of persistence she must have to win him.

11:11 pm saw Lisa taking the newly freed minute to watch her son sleep. And she followed suit. Alone.


	10. Indoor Snowfall

**Indoor Snowfall**

(066 – Snow)

It's snowing. On the inside.

This is the third realization I've encountered in the listless hour of 3 am.

The first involves my lack of guilt for using the adjoining hotel door for personal purposes. I should feel every bit the intruder for sneaking in uninvited. Not quite breaking and entering, it would still rouse a similar fury from the occupant. If he'd been awake to witness the crime.

The second is an extension of that last thought. He actually does know how to sleep. And I have visual proof. The scene is enticing; sharp planes of his back dappled by a flickering reflection of randomized snow, forearms hidden beneath the pillow, an empty space beside him. The air conditioning takes the edge off the Florida heat, but leaves enough humidity to prompt this exposure of skin. The loose sheet settled at his waist offers tantalizing notions to fuel future solitary nights.

The third requires effort to decipher. Upon investigation, I determine that the man had moved the hotel's reasonably-sized television from its place near the foot of the bed. The cable line had been disconnected, lying across the empty table like a throttled snake. The TV has been relocated to a teetering spot beside the bed, the base too large to fit securely on the bedside table. One would need a gymnastic crane of the neck to view the screen from the mattress. Not that there's anything to see. In its cable-less state, there is only the UHF-born snow pattern, with its static song accompaniment. Whether intended to covers night sounds or fill the quiet, I cannot be sure.

When he stirs, every fiber within me stirs. My flesh tries to pull from my skeleton, seeking contact with forbidden muscles. Shoulder blades and spine shift in an unconscious tease. I catch myself praying the sheet will shift as well. His face buries further into the surprisingly soft hotel pillow. Mine bore several fitful punches earlier.

The white noise of a televised blizzard soothes him even as it covers any sound of my approach. I must get closer. Close enough that my gaze can touch what my hands cannot.

The fourth consists of new discovery. A tiny mole lies just beneath the cap of the left shoulder, the brown spot staining the pale canvas of his back. Compulsion to physically connect with the flaw overwhelms and I step back from the site of temptation. The prudent display of control leaves me itching and relieved, because in the next heartbeat he lifts his head just enough to turn his face from the garbled screen. The loss of his snow-lit features convinces me of the timeliness of my reluctant retreat.

The fifth and final realization is considered in the safety of my own room. What surprises me is not the humanness of the scene, nor the white noise, nor any physical imperfection. It is the tranquil, untethered expression that will outlive the fantasies of what lies beneath that sheet. Never have I witnessed a more undisturbed, uncomplicated moment within the world he inhabits. And yet, it only exacerbates my own issues. Because now that I know how sleep looks on him, I will crave the view. But that empty space beside him is not mine to fill.

I assume the position; on stomach, arms sliding under the pillow, head burrowing in softness. Quite comfortable, actually. I find I miss the static song masking the arrival of waking dawn. Florida heat forces its way into every pore and my sheet clings to my newly naked skin. But in my dreams, there is snow.


End file.
